The Nature of Resentment
by King Cobbler
Summary: On hiatus. For details see my profile. Voting still open.
1. You Fool Yourself, Dr House

King: Hi everyone! I'm King (duh!) and you have the pleasure of reading my first fanfiction piece ever! My little sister (who has her own account here (anonymous) (that is on long-term hold)) Dee was the one who turned me onto this so . . . blame her! In any case, I took a few liberties with this one, counting on my belief that House is a child trapped in a man's body with a genius' mind and an old lady's temperament. That being said, there are some mildly dark thoughts and actions in here, nothing too bad, but not for the particularly squeamish. As always, I own nothing, not even the plot because as with everything it's already been done. Oh and, show a girl some love and R&R BABY!

--

Somewhere in the fantasy world created by a mixture of strong medication and one too many tequilas, the notable Dr. House realized, with a tinge of disgust, how much he hated his best friend.

No, maybe not hated, hatred implied he actually cared . . . loathed? Nah, that implied he spent hours nursing a drink and downing vicodin just wishing that the goody two-shoes Wilson would finally get what was coming to him . . . . . . . Huh, oddly enough, that sounded farmiliar.

House took a blurry glance around him, he was, in fact, nursing a drink and downing his ever precious pills in a bar as ancient as the ground it stood on, half falling out of a broken down barstool, hoping with a hope only known to men like House that the ever-wonderful Dr. Wilson would get hit by a bus . . . or some other type of large motor transportation vehicle . . . Heck, House would settle for a motor scooter. . . In fact, he'd prefer a motor scooter.

Yeah, he could see it now: Cuddy forced to tell the staff and Wilson's patients, "No, he's not retiring, he got ran over by a tire." She would undoubtedly get so many calls from his adoring fans, the ever proper boss-lady would slip and curse the dead man's name. "Yes, yes, that's right, from one of those Barbie's-first-jeep-golfcart things. No, no, we didn't realize they were dangerous either. Yes, it is a shame. Who ran over him? Well, the police believe that someone didn't so much as run into him as the golfcart rolled over him. Yes, it was parked on a hill. Calm down Mrs. Lupenski, I'm sure your grandchildren are perfectly safe."

He managed to choke out a bitter laugh at his own twisted fantasy. As increasing amounts of alcoholic beverages were dumped into his bloodstream, Wilson's death seemed more and more like a beneficial prospect. Then again, what else could you expect from Father Theresa?

At this thought, another surge of resentment bubbled to the surface. Every one LOVED Wilson, so content were they with his false words of humility and painted on smiles they didn't so much as wonder about his two failed marriages, and if they should, by chance, happen to come across such information, they wouldn't think twice about it because of course someone like Wilson, who excelled in the role of friendly advice giver, couldn't possibly just be telling them all exactly what they wanted to hear.

It could be considered ironic, he supposed, that everyone was so determined to "fix" him because he realized that people were morons while Wilson was left alone because he pretended everyone was equal. A sardonic lifting of the lips forced his face into a smile, he was just as screwed up.

Pausing a moment to acknowledge two exceptionally pretty call girls,(or very manly drag-queens, he couldn't be sure which) who were looking his way, he picked up his drink for another long gulp. How odd, it didn't taste much like tequila, or whiskey, or alcohol at all, but he supposed that could be blamed on his lack of sensory perception rather than the barkeep.

In a place like this, the bartender didn't take away your keys or comment when he thought you'd had enough. Nah, in a place like this, you could die and no one would know until you didn't show up for work a week later and even then, no one would care because only idiots drank alone at broken-down bars like this one. It was a shame he wouldn't remember where this place was in the morning.

As if on cue, he very nearly fell off his bar stool. He adjusted himself, tucking his legs under him for leverage and attempted to overcome the nausea and disorientation that came with such a move. The word seemed to spin around uncontrollably, the colors blurring and mixing until everything seemed to be one big blob of mismatched patchwork.

His vision faded, making everything even more unclear, his eyes seeming to close of their own accord. A sudden cramp in his stomach forced him to gag twice before retching violently. In some far corner of his mind he realized he'd just vomited blood before falling into unconsciousness.

"beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . "

The slow beat of a heart monitor was the first thing he was aware of, that and the pressure of a gas mask on his face.

'Damn . . .' he realized, 'must've overdosed.'

While mildly surprised that someone in that hell hole of an establishment bothered to call an ambulance, he wasn't at all grateful for it. This was just the sort of thing Wilson needed to persuade Cuddy to get him off the vicodin and into some sort of touchy-feely-I-love-ponies "treatment center."

Being treated in the back of that ambulance, being rushed to the emergency room, brooding about the wolf in sheep's clothing that was Wilson, he could only hope with a desperate longing that only men like House possessed, that somewhere, someway, Wilson was being pancaked by a runaway motor scooter. His vision faded again to black and the slow beat of the heart monitor fell into one last long rhythm . . .

"bbbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppp . . . "


	2. An Oncologist's Worst Nightmare

Yes, I am continuing it. Yes, I know you want to praise me. By all means, feel free. The credit does go mostly to my reviewers, you guys are awesome! Particularly spncsifreak, who actually brought up the issue of continuing. Warnings: Some dark themes, some mild language, and a little OOC that's completely my fault. It seems an alert Wilson is much harder to write than a drunk House. As always, comments of any kind are not only welcomed, but encouraged.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own the show, the characters, the plot, or a clean pair of socks.

* * *

Gregory House was considered a genius. From an early age he'd demonstrated all the classic signs of a fantastic mind. He'd been able to solve complex puzzles, put together unorthodox riddles, find the answers to even the most advanced mathematic equations, and play the piano with incredible efficiency before he reached the tender age of ten.

Yes, there was little doubt that House was a genius, but as those who study the minds of genius' know, their great intellect often comes at a greater price. Social stigma, the inability to function in normal society, a variety of disorders that increased the difficulty of life. These were the symptoms a prodigy often had to endure.

Did Gregory House suffer from these same limitations? It was impossible to tell, simply because while on paper he may have seemed the epitome of a misunderstood mastermind, those who knew the doctor personally could honestly say that he was a jackass by choice.

* * *

James Wilson took a small sip of his coffee. Why he was drinking it was debatable, but he preferred to think that it was merely out of necessity rather than comfort. His hands were shaking, but he preferred to ignore that too.

House was in the emergency room at Princeton-Plainsboro. His death was very much a possibility, in fact, it was even likely. They'd pumped large quantities of alcohol and prescription pain killers out of his stomach, but how much had already been dispersed throughout his bloodstream was unknown. Needless to say, the prognosis wasn't encouraging.

They'd called him first, something that shocked the oncologist. House wasn't the type to care about consequences, but it seemed he wasn't completely unaware of his own mortality. He'd had a contact sheet. Explicit instructions for Wilson to follow should a situation such as this occur.

The first was rather easy; don't inform anyone. Not Cuddy or the precious ducklings. Such an order was almost inconsequential, after all, they did work at the very hospital that now housed the cynical man. House must have realized this and as he didn't leave any other instructions on the subject, it was doubtful that he expected the oncologist to go to any undue lengths to keep his colleagues in the dark.

The second instruction was impossibly harder; don't inform the parents. It almost seemed redundant, for even House must have realized that his parents did in fact count as "anyone", but Wilson supposed he could see the reasoning behind it. It was a warning; under no condition are you to inform my family.

On the surface it seemed innocent enough. House would recover just as well and his father would have one less thing to hold over his head. Yes, it defiantly seemed innocent enough, but what if House didn't get better?

The very thought seemed odd; foreign. House was smart; a genius in fact. He seemed able to manipulate, scheme, and deceive his way out of any and all consequences. The fact that he could die, that he could be beaten, that he could . . . _loose_ bothered the cancer specialist in unimaginable ways.

Wilson was purposely oblivious to many things, but reality was not one of them. Statistically speaking, his best friend's death was no longer a simple possibility, but a probability. How then, could he possibly explain himself to Mr. And Mrs. House?

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry Blythe, but you see I had express instructions not to tell you about your son's condition. Yes, that's right, Greg left me a note . . . No, I suppose he didn't want you here, even if he was dying . . . . Yes, I hope to see you at the funeral too . . ."

Wilson could understand and even sympathize with House's desire to avoid his parents, but this was certainly not the time for such childishness. If the diagnostician died with his mother and father oblivious instead of informed due to his own involvement, could he live with the guilt?

No, no, he couldn't. Obviously, he would have to call John and Blythe and hope to God House was too weak to get revenge after this was all over. With that thought in mind, he took a fortifying gulp of his now cooling beverage and made his way to a payphone just down the hall.

The oncologist threw his half-empty paper cup into a garbage can placed conveniently nearby as he picked up the phone with shaking hands . . .

The dial tone seemed especially loud, Wilson noted, ringing in his ears and making his body itch uncomfortably. The doctor rolled his shoulders in hopes of releasing some of the tension as his finger touched the first button. The dial tone disappeared, but it seemed his ears were still ringing. The second number was pressed and still he felt no better.

The situation stunk of betrayal. House had entrusted him with his will while he lay helpless, something that couldn't have been done lightly. Had he honored that trust? Surely not, for here he was disobeying what could be the cynic's last request. Thankfully, Wilson no longer had a choice in the matter as his index finger lightly tapped the last number.

* * *

The woman stared at the phone in shock, unsure of what she'd just heard. Gregory House was in the hospital, in severe condition. He could die. At this thought, an involuntary sob was drawn from her throat. He could _die_ . . . .


	3. Caring Sucks

Hey Guys! Sorry for the late update, but my computer finally lost the fight with a virus and I lost EVERYTHING . . . ON that note I must ask . . . Does anyone want this fic to go a certain way? Does anyone want a particular pairing? A particular situation? No pairing at all? At this point, almost all possibilities can become finality so don't be afraid to speak up!

Warning: I'm trying out a new format which switches the P.O.V. constantly. It's a little confusing at first, but after a while it gets much better. Keep in mind, this format will be used in the next chapter, but to a much lesser scale.

Disclaimer: No, no, I don't own House, but I do hear he's up for sale on eBay . . .

* * *

Allison Cameron had always been a rock. Not in the literal since, of course, but she'd always been a pillar of support, forever acting as everyone's favorite moral compass. When people were afraid, they came to her. When people were confused, they came to her. Why? She was considered an expert on emotions and was consistently teased about being the only doctor in Plainsboro who could fill in for Oprah.

Not that she couldn't, of course, but it still stung. Why did being a good person seem to get her such criticism? Why did caring about her fellow human beings automatically brand her as the hospitals unofficial councilor? Allison wasn't sure, but she'd always accepted the duty without complaint. She'd always _liked_ helping people.

Sadly, while she was a good doctor and a great person, Cameron was also human. That meant she needed her rest, her relaxation, and at the very least 2 square meals a day. Currently, the young doctor was getting none of these things.

She was busy, something she'd expected, but never really comprehended. She'd expected to be tired, but she'd never expected to be straight-up exhausted. She'd expected to occasionally miss a few meals, but she'd never before thought of a candy bar as a godsend. She'd expected the stress, but she'd never expected the constant muscle tension and migraines. Most unexpected, however, were the phone calls.

Allison was a caring individual. She connected with her patients on a level unknown to most other doctors. She gained their trust without trying and their friendship with a smile. This camaraderie now also seemed to be her undoing. If a patient was upset, she offered them a hug. If a patient was confused, she offered them her perspective. Doing these things had never bothered her as it was in her nature to be compassionate, but now, everything was different.

You see, Dr. Allison Cameron had made the mistake of giving a few of her patients her home phone number. At the time, it'd seemed like such a good idea. If they'd relapsed, or felt any discomfort, they could speak directly to her and she could diagnose them over the phone. It had seemed like such a good idea, but it wasn't, because Dr. Allison Cameron had forgotten the golden rule: _**everybody**_ lies.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy barely restrained a sigh of contentment as she snuggled into her comfy couch and dove into her latest romance novel. She was currently enjoying the beginnings of her annual vacation (which consisted of four sick days). She enjoyed this time to herself because while being the first woman to become a dean of medicine sounded glorious, truthfully, it was just tiring. This was due largely in part to Gregory House, a man who constantly defied her authority and challenged her mind. He was . . . infuriating . . . but he was also interesting . . . a paradox really.

This time, Cuddy did sigh. Here she was on her long awaited vacation and she was thinking about House. Even when he wasn't there he managed to torture her. Damn him. In defiance she lifted her chin and picked up her book, determined to drive herself to the fantasy world in which only Jaq and his latest conquest resided, but . . . she couldn't.

Yes, the brunette sighed, she wanted to, but she couldn't. House was still on her mind; she could practically hear him whining about the stupidity of romance novels and those who read them. Worse yet, she couldn't even hit this incorporeal House. Cuddy sighed again, her lips pursing in aggravation.

* * *

The phone rang once, twice, three times before a woman answered:

"Hello . . . "

Wilson jumped on this chance "Blythe, listen, its Greg . . ."

"You have reached Blythe and John House, we're not here right now, so please leave your name and number and we'll get back to you as soon as we can . . . "

Wilson stood still for a moment, stunned into silence by the recorded voice. He couldn't very well leave a _**message **_about something this serious. He slammed the phone down and his fist soon after connected with the tile wall in a show of frustration.

He was tired and jittery and he felt _horrible_. How could he be there when House died? How could _House_ of all people _**die**_?! There was no Wilson without House, just like there was no Watson without Sherlock. That's how people identified him . . . and that's how he identified himself: House's one and only friend.

* * *

Cameron was a kind person and that compassion often clouded her judgment, but under no circumstances was she an idiot. She'd told her patients not to call her personal line _unless _it was the upmost of emergencies. They'd all agreed, swearing up and down that come hell or high water they wouldn't call her unless it was urgent. She should've known; _everybody lies_.

A few weeks later she'd gotten her first call. Naturally, she'd been a tad panicky because it was _supposed_ to be an emergency. It wasn't. Several more calls and several more false alarms later, she'd been more than a little annoyed to pick up the phone and find a perfectly healthy pregnant woman on the line. A pregnant woman who wanted Cameron to be there for the birth.

Her sensitive nature kept her from outright refusing the woman, but she did try every excuse in the book. The heavily pregnant Marie Thomas was insistent, however, because, after all: "This baby wouldn't have made it this far without you."

Cameron was flattered, really she was, but with her hectic schedule she didn't know if she could be there for something like this. Still, she eventually agreed, exchanging her pager number for Marie's due date. This eventually led to being woken up in the middle of the night by that very piece of machinery.

Now she was at Plainsboro, depriving herself of the sleep she richly deserved to see a woman she barely knew give birth. All because she cared. She took a sip of her lukewarm coffee, cursing all hospital food. House was right: caring sucked.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy was not insane. In fact, she'd never had the slightest problem with her mental health. Sure, she was stressed, but she had good reason to be. Sure, she was prone to bits of sadness, but that was because she was disappointed in the outcome of certain events. There had always been a logical reason behind every psychological episode she'd ever had . . . until now.

She could hear House in her head, as if he was right there in the room. (He wasn't. She'd checked.) She'd tried every method she knew to tune him out, but just like with the real House, nothing worked. She'd even tried to reason with the voice in her mind—out loud. Needless to say, it didn't work.

It was bad enough that House constantly badgered her at work, but she should be allowed to leave him there and relax at home. No . . . no . . . that wasn't right. House had always bothered her at home too. He'd left her lewd voice mails and she was pretty sure he'd egged her house once.

House always annoyed her. He held _nothing_ sacred! She clearly remembered him calling her on every single holiday for the past five years with some old Chinese idioms . . . In fact, she remembered him calling her during Hanukah to ask if she missed Christmas! He was especially persistent on her annual holiday the only time she ever- . . .

Cuddy froze there. House had always been especially annoying during her 'vacation'. He called all the time, scaring her with sound effects and horror movie impersonations. He had always been such a jackass. She'd even changed her number . . . _**four **_times . . . and still . . . House really didn't have much to do. She'd almost feel sorry for him . . . if she didn't _know_ him . . .

It seemed odd, that he'd forgo this long standing tradition . . . Why hadn't he called? Maybe he had something else to do? . . . Nah . . . It was _House_, after all . . . In any case, this explained the odd House-voice living in her head . . . her brain must be compensating for the lack of stress. Figures . . . Even when House wasn't there he was still tormenting her.


	4. Collapsable

Hey everyone! Sorry for the lateness of the update, but I've been starved for inspiration where this story is concerned. Actually, no, I've got all kinds of inspiration. There are so many plot twists I want to write. The problem with plot twists is that you have to have a plot to twist and I haven't exactly decided what my objective is. I personally, am usually against stories that are all about romance for the sake of romance, so I don't want to write a story in which that's the only conflict. I considered trying to turn House 'nice,' giving him amnesia, or some other impairing defect, but I'm afraid that'll be too much of a cliche. As it is, I plan to continue writing what comes at the time to mind. This will undoubtedly make the writing a little more flimsy than most would like, but as soon as I'm finished with the story, I plan to go right back over it and do a little 'cleaning'. Thanks for the patience and as always, reviews and feedback of any kind are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Don't sue. For the love of God, don't sue.

* * *

The phone rang once. The occupants of the sparsely furnished room stirred in their sleep, mussing the bedspread in their fight against wakefulness. The woman buried her face into the mans cotton t-shirt, but unfortunately the action did little to stop the incessant alarm of the telephone (though it was decidedly adorable.)

The female, after a brief struggle, (during which her husband fell again into an easy sleep) slowly opened her eyes; glaring at the electronic device responsible for her abrupt wake-up call.

She glanced towards her significant other who was happily drooling on his pillow. Her eyes narrowed in an expression akin to spite, momentarily resolved to wake him for the sake of revenge, before they softened dramatically. He was rather cute when unconscious.

She sighed, but the action's frustration was negated by the fond smile crossing her lips. She ruffled her already unruly dark hair, indulging in a brief yawn before reaching towards the phone in a unquestionably sluggish manner.

Half-way there, agreeably enough, the answering machine picked up the call. The woman's own voice, distorted by machinery, came to the fore giving a brief introduction into the workings of an answering machine before suggesting to the caller that they should, in fact, leave a message. Then the beep sounded.

"Hey, it's Lydia. Pick up, please! There's somethin' goin' down at the hospital."

* * *

He stared at the door for a while, half sure he should go after her. He'd even started to stand, putting on a pair of wrinkled jeans before he sighed, flopping down on the bed again. He looked over to his wife's side of the mattress, the side of the bed that she should be sleeping in right now.

A bitter smile ghosted across his face. Instead, she was off doing who knows what without saying a word to him. Typical Stacy. She'd always had an independent streak a mile long. He'd fallen in love with her headstrong nature when he was younger, but as he grew older it seemed to be less exciting and more frustrating.

His hand stretched out across the empty side of the bed, trying in vain to capture the warmth his partner had left behind. How many times had this happened? How many times had he gone after her worried and scared? How many times had he stayed up waiting for her? How many times had he been criticized for not giving her enough freedom?

Enough was enough, this time he would let her have her precious independence. He'd just go back to his blissful dreams without so much as a thought to her well-being. He stubbornly stuck out his chin, this time, he resolved, he wouldn't worry in the least, and yet . . . He still tossed a wary glance at the door.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy smiled ever so slightly, a sign of the greatest enjoyment. Her House fears had been temporarily relieved by the sound of Wilson's voice. He'd called to check in, after his shift, just to tell her that everything was fine. Obviously he knew her well.

He'd chatted for a while, about House's latest antics (concerning a patient in a sinfully short skirt) and about the various gossip floating around, leaving no detail unreviewed. It had relieved her. The queasy nagging sense of wrongness had been replaced by a touch of jealousy and more than a bit of hope. Maybe House was finally growing up. Maybe she had something to do with it.

She was content, a rare thing in such a hectic life. Later, she'd realize how very nervous her oncologist friend had sounded. Later, she'd realize how very familiar the background noises had been, but for now, she'd remain in her impenetrable bubble of denial. The bubble she had built.

Yes, Lisa Cuddy was enjoying herself, blissfully unaware of the events taking place outside of her favorite sitcoms. She'd soon surface to a most desperate reality, but on this night, for a time, she was at peace.

* * *

Wilson set down the phone, overwhelmed by mixed feelings of guilt and relief. Cuddy didn't know, didn't suspect a thing. Such a fact could soon change, considering who the woman was, but hopefully, by the time she found out what had happened House would already be well on his way to recovery.

James fidgeted with his clothing, straightening his collar unnecessarily. He may not of been able to contact House's parents, but he'd gained some amount of solace in giving Cuddy a fair amount of peace. Not to mention, he hadn't violated any of his friend's rules in the process, a fact witch filled him with an understandable amount of pride.

He made his way back to the cafeteria, determined to avoid looking at his best friend's prone body. He wouldn't look at House that way. He couldn't. Seeing the stubborn pessimist so very weak seemed to zap his own will to fight.

He couldn't afford that now. Couldn't afford to be a sobbing mess. Couldn't afford to loose his cool. Couldn't afford to make a mistake, because that would mean he'd failed House.

It would mean years of trust were easily broken. It'd mean House couldn't depend on him after all they'd been through. Did Wilson think he could live in any manner of normalcy without House there? No. No, he didn't. Why? It was probably because the oncologist relied so heavily on his friend for entertainment, but he wasn't ready to admit that just now.

It'd mean that House was his everything. That he'd lost his ability to think and function without him. Pathetic, that's probably what the cynic would say. He'd say that Wilson was just holding on so desperately to him because he needed to feel needed and House needed him most of all. In different words of course. More realistic, less emotional. That was House.

In a way, that was James too. He wasn't sure if it was his association with the diagnostician, some desperate facet of his personality, or years of having to be the bearer of bad news, but he'd grown detached. He felt, oh he felt, but it was no longer as if he was in the moment. Some small part of himself always seemed to be standing from a distance, untouched. His inner House.

As he sat down to a lack luster meal in an empty hospital room, he wasn't sure if he was thankful for that. On the one hand, besides a few ripples of shock, he'd already adjusted and accepted House's condition. On the other, House could die and he was wondering how he would feel afterwards. Way to prioritize.

For a second he rethought his decision to keep the doctor's parents and pupils out of the loop, but ultimately decided it was for the best. What would they do if they were here? Some would cry, some would yell, but it wouldn't help anyone.

If House got better, than his comrades would be saved a lot of grief and guilt. If he didn't, well, than the other's could comfort themselves with the false belief that if they had been notified they could've done something to help the miserable man.

They'd hate him, probably, but maybe that's what he wanted. He'd always had a masochistic streak. If House died then having other's blame him would make him feel as if some type of justice was served. They'd feel better too, the grief stricken, having someone to fault without dragging a dead man's name through the mud. It was a win-win.

He wasn't in the right mind frame to think the situation through properly, he realized that. Maybe after the smoke cleared, regardless of the outcome, he'd regret depriving people of their final goodbyes, but now, his reasoning made sense. He was in no hurry to wonder about it any further.

He was in no hurry to wonder about it at all. It inevitably circled back continually to one conclusion. If House died, inevitably, so would some part of Wilson. Even if the errant doctor did survive, the dynamics of their relationship would be changed irrevocably. House was no longer some vague idea of truthful greatness, he was real, he was human, and he was mortal. For some reason, this idea scared Wilson the most.

* * *

Cameron had always wanted children. It had seemed like the natural conclusion to her perfect fairy tale happy ending. A loving family. She also wouldn't settle for just a few kids, she'd wanted a whole heard. Past tense.

Growing up, she'd only had an older brother who still considered her a 'brat'. In the lonelier times when she had nowhere to go and nothing to do she often wished for a younger sibling. A younger sister.

Maybe she'd look like her. Maybe she'd have the same dark hair in ribbons and curls and an obsession with singing old folk tunes off-key. Maybe she'd idolize her older sister, maybe she'd hate her. Regardless, it seemed perfect. A sister was someone who you couldn't ever get away from.

Someone who could look up to her as she looked up to her big brother. Someone to teach things and someone to share secrets with. It was an idealistic version of a relationship, she knew, but she'd always been envious of those who came from large families.

Not wanting to deprive her own offspring of that deeply rooted support system she'd long felt had been missing in her own upbringing, she'd resolved just to have several children close together. It had seemed so very simple. Past tense.

She was a doctor, she knew the mechanics of labor. She knew it was painful. She knew it was strenuous, but reading about it in textbooks and actually seeing it were two totally different things. Seeing her patient, Marie Thomas, give birth to a squealing purple imp had effectively sterilized her.

After it was all over, the mother had held her purple imp in her arms and claimed 'it was all worth it'. Yeah, right. She still wanted her fairytale ending and she still wanted the big family, but now she would be more than happy to adopt. Thrilled, even. She'd beg if necessary.

She'd staggered out of the maternity ward in relief and had no plans of making a second trip there anytime soon. Seeing something so horrific had ruined her plans to go crash at home, so she was now stuck at the hospital.

There wasn't much to do, but the cafeteria was open to the staff. She had no appetite, of course, but a soothing cup of hot coffee would probably help her nerves. She wasn't exactly sure why the whole experience had affected her so much.

The more she thought about it the more she realized that it had shattered her idealistic view of parenting. Those people had nothing to look forward to. Their little imp would grow up too fast with too many problems. She'd date a biker and get miscellanies piercing for no reason.

She'd probably end up pregnant before she hit eighteen and drop out of highschool. Statistically speaking, the proud parents that now rejoiced over their 'bundle of joy' had doomed their own offspring.

Opening the swinging door with barely restrained fatigue, the brunette sighed. Within a few hours, her entire outlook on life had been changed, further shattering her optimism. In this line of work, one had to be realistic and realistically she'd never remarry. She couldn't love someone like she once had. . . . and it seemed she had little reason too marry for the sake of a children alone.

The woman continued inside, absentmindedly picking up a tray full of stale finger sandwiches. The hospital's cafeteria stayed open for staff 24/7, but that didn't mean that the food was of any real quality. At this time of night, expecting much else besides a few unwanted scraps and discarded processed foods was setting yourself up for disappointment.

Thankfully, the famished Cameron had enough disappointment to last a lifetime and would not force any on herself unnecessarily. She was more than happy to accept the cheese-stuffed pieces of bread . That's not to say she wouldn't prefer something better, but in true Allison Cameron fashion she couldn't complain.

Setting her tray down on a nearby table, she preceded to stuff her face. You'd think after the traumatizing experience she'd just witnessed, she'd be queasy, but you'd think wrong. Yes, originally the thought of anything solid had turned her stomach, but after the first bite her survival instincts kicked in and she was suddenly famished. She'd finished her tray in record time.

After dumping the remainder of her food in the trash, she decided she'd just casually hang around the cafeteria hoping that someone she knew also caught the case of the munchies. Bad idea. For one, no one else came in and her lonely condition attracted the pity of nearby janitors and for another, she was tired, really tired.

Not the, ' I could use a nap' tired, either, the 'I probably shouldn't drive' zombiefied tired that only a select few overworked individuals ever had the bad luck to experience. Her eyes were open and her body still moved, but no form of thought process was behind any of her actions. It was like some instinctual creature had taken control over her nervous system and had only one desire in mind; a bed.

She wandered the hallways in this dazed state and a part of her was even surprised by the lack of care her colleagues seemed to have for her own well being. That train of thought was snuffed out quickly. She looked into a few rooms to see if their were any beds open, but it seemed the hospital was packed full. That left only one option; the coma-ward.

That wasn't its real name, but it was the slang term doctors often used for the area of the hospital inhabited by long term care patients in a persistent vegetative state; the coma ward. It really was a lovely place. Exhausted interns and experienced slackers alike could come to this place and steal a few z's undisturbed in one of the many visitor's chairs.

It was uncomfortable, but sleep was a truly precious thing for one in the medical profession. With any luck, a patient died and left a bed behind for a certain fatigued physician. Cameron's conscience, ever alert, slapped her baser urges good for that thought. It was wrong to wish people were dead, especially if it was purely for your own selfish causes, even if the veg-heads were just wasting away and taking up valuable space that could be used to help those who could still be helped. Bad Cameron!

Cameron finally came to the 'wing' and peeked her head in the first door. There was no one there, besides a coma-guy and . . . an empty bed. The woman barely contained a squeal of joy. Judging by the sparse furnishings and surprising lack of fresh flowers and cards, this guy's family hadn't visited in a while.

It was sad, but it did work to Cameron's advantage. She could sleep there the rest of the night and no one would be the wiser. In fact, ever prepared, Cameron had brought along some work clothes in her bag . . . . which she'd left in the car, but if all went well she'd have plenty of time to change before duty called.

She made her way to the bed, ready to collapse. Some small part of her feared not waking up in time, but the larger part of her consciousness was concerned with rest. As she turned down the covers and prepared for a slice of heaven served on starchy white sheets, her hand was stilled by one word.

"Cameron?"

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Feel encouraged to review. I've decided to start taking votes on the pairing, so if you'd like to request one, now's the time. Cameron/House and Wilson/House are currently tied, with one vote. No other pairings have yet to be suggested, but all of them are welcome. Once again, thanks for the patience.


	5. A Wise Man

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Disclaimer: None of this is mine.

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A wise man once said that if a man puts a cord around his neck, God will provide someone to pull it. Wilson had definitely just put a cord around his neck. He was doomed to face countless hours of a patented Allison Cameron tongue lashing and the guilt that came along with it, all because of a misguided tongue. His own misguided tongue, no less. Traitor.

Allison was tired, dead tired, that much was made clear by her poor posture and dropping eyelids. She'd probably come in search of an empty bed and had just happened to intrude upon this particular room. She wouldn't have even noticed him had he not called out. Why had he done that, anyway?

Maybe he had a subconscious desire to be caught in his own lies and be forced apart from the worry that now feasted upon his soul and into the welcome arms of a fellow. Maybe he was tired. Who knew?

The reasons behind his sudden lapse were inconsequential now, though, because they produced the same dreaded result; Allison Cameron's awareness. Even now he could see the way her shoulders tensed as she considered his presence.

A part of her probably thought he was some sort of hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation, but he hinged no hope on convincing her fully of this idea. Allison was tired, but she was not so tired as to forget herself. She'd want to know why he was here, in the middle of the night, sitting in a nearly abandoned room, scarfing down the inedible dribble also known as hospital food.

"Wilson?" She murmured, right on cue.

She turned to him then, her eyes wide with surprise. The oncologist watched in fascination as her body language changed completely. No longer was it the relaxed drag of the soon to be sleeping, but the professional defensive posture one expected from House's followers.

He cleared his throat. "Eating," He nodded to his plate of food. "And yourself?"

"A patient of mine went into labor . . . " Her tone was soaked heavily with suspicion. "I thought you were off duty . ."

Wilson took an absentminded bite of jell-O, shrugging in a nonchalant fashion. He changed the subject. "I didn't know you were interested in Gynecology."

"I'm not, " Cameron reaffirmed. "It was a favor . . ." Her arms crossed. "Why are you here?"

The oncologist nodded along with her words. "Just visiting a friend." He gestured towards the man on the bed across from them. "Many female doctors become obstetricians, it's hardly a disrespectful occupation . . ." Cameron seemed to stiffen. "I have to wonder why you seem to find the idea so distasteful . . . "

"You know someone in a coma?" She probed, ignoring his inquisitiveness.

Wilson nodded, still munching. "More like an acquaintance, really, but I was in the area and decided to stop by. You still haven't answered my earlier question, though, why do you find the idea of female obstetricians so off putting?"

Allison floundered. "It's not that I dislike the idea, just the automatic relation people seem to draw between female doctors and babies. It's not as if we can't handle any other job equally well . . ."

The man nodded again. "True, women are very capable. In fact, there are many duties a woman can handle much better than a man. Unfortunately, much of the population doesn't think so."

"I have no idea why . . . " She shook her head in frustration, deciding to leave it be.

She sighed, momentarily forgetting the circumstances of their meeting as she basked in the comfortable silence. It was gratifying to know that her opinions were not so ludicrously femenistic, that someone else, a male someone, had also noticed the disturbing pressure put on women to procreate. It wasn't as if they were just baby making machines . . .

Just as quickly as this comfort had washed over her, it suddenly fell away. Cameron stood straight, her defensive posture and professional mask back up. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at the man across from her. She bristled. Wilson had deliberately led her off subject just to avoid answering her questions. Why?

She didn't know Wilson well, but he had always struck her as an honest, yoda-like figure. If he was lying, it was worth investigating. Cameron wasn't the type to just let things lie.

"So, let me get this straight. You just 'happened' to be in a neighborhood that's a far cry from your own at . . ."She glanced at her watch. "2:00 a.m. and decided to step in just to visit a 'near' and 'dear' acquaintance?"

Honestly, Cameron didn't know if Wilson lived near the hospital, or what his habits were. For all she knew such bizarre field trips were normal for him, but she wasn't about to admit any of those things. If there's one thing she'd gathered from her time with House, it was that all things in life and otherwise are won by a well placed bluff.

Wilson sighed, contemplating his own options. He could continue to lie to Cameron, but such a tactic was ill advised. Cameron was tenacious at best and rarely left things alone. The likely scenario would be that Wilson would spend most of the night convincing Cameron that nothing suspicious was going on and she'd still find out his secret soon enough. The entire idea seemed tiring.

"Cameron . . . The truth is, this man," He gestured to the elder. "Isn't an acquaintance at all. He's . . . my father." Yet he still couldn't help himself.

The woman stood stock still, looking towards the oncologist. It seemed to fit, his story. If Wilson's father was in the hospital then it would make perfect sense that he was there as well. It would also explain his avoidance, no one liked to think of their relatives' impending deaths.

Guilt filled her near to bursting. Here she'd been giving Wilson the third degree when he was in nothing but turmoil. Had she become one of those emotionless doctors who couldn't care less about another person's feelings? Had she become House?

There was a part of her that still felt a nagging suspicion. It all seemed too perfect, too coincidental, too fake to be real, but she forcefully brushed away such thoughts. Wilson . . . She barely knew him, what could he possibly have to lie to her about?

She moved forward, bringing her hand over his in a gesture of comfort. She gave a small, bitter smile before sitting down next to him in support. His hand clenched around her's fitfully and she gave it a soft squeeze in return.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea." She admitted. "How long?" She questioned, gently.

Wilson barely maintained his saddened facade. He was surprised. Certainly he knew Cameron to be a compassionate person, but to drop all of her doubts so suddenly . . . . It seemed unlike her to be that naive.

Perhaps the woman was simply less vocal about her suspicions because she didn't know him well. It was possible that her politeness had forced her to put on the false pretense of concern even if she didn't believe his excuses. In the end, Wilson finally decided that he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth and he simply took her words at face value. He was far too stressed already to handle any extra contributions.

"Too long." He whispered bitterly.

The oncologist whimpered pathetically, leaning his head against her shoulder. He was overdoing it by more than a fair margin, but he didn't doubt that Cameron would buy the act. She wasn't quite as jaded or cynical as most and ultimately his uncharacteristic show of weakness would make her pity him more.

As expected, the immunologist patted his head, somewhat uncomfortably, but did not move away. He relaxed in her embrace, cherishing the fact that someone was comforting him in this trying time. For the sake of believability, he pulled away almost immediately, managing a sheepish smile.

"Cameron, I think you should leave." He said, sighing.

The brunette nodded jerkily, standing. "I understand." She confirmed. "If you . . .need anything . . ." She trailed off uncomfortably.

Wilson nodded, encouraging her departure with a soft smile. She migrated from the room, giving him one last concerned glance. For dramatics he dipped his head, cradling it with his hand in mimicked despair. The moment the door closed, he stood, trying to calm an unexpected bout of nerves.

He really shouldn't have lied to Cameron. Not for some half baked rule his best friend had created for entertainment purposes, at least. Maybe by refusing to enable House completely, by going after Cameron and telling her the truth, he could finally teach the man the value of respect . . .

He never would, of course. House had always possessed an uncanny knack for influencing people and this coveted power seemed to apply to his unconscious state as well. Wilson knew that should Cuddy herself demand answers from him, he'd still lie. It wasn't his place to tell them something like this, it wasn't his place to betray House.

As another wave of concern welled up, Wilson swore he'd make House pay. Things had gone too far too fast and he wasn't about to let the diagnostician get away with this kind of behavior. It was about time that something was done to help the man, to stop him from destroying himself. The oncologist didn't have it in him to rat out his friend, but he was more than comfortable with a spot of revenge.

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Cameron's hand twitched uncomfortably against her side. She'd been given a burst of adrenaline by her anxious concern, but she was still no less tired. She could probably make it home, but she found she didn't have the heart to try. She would be paying for this decision later, she knew, when she was grumpy and miserable.

Oddly enough, this idea didn't bother her so much as leaving Wilson in such a venerable state would. He'd asked her to give him some alone time and she'd done so, but how long would it be before he needed a shoulder to cry on? She couldn't possibly desert him completely.

Allison, for one, had never realized that Wilson's father was in the hospital. That could be blamed on the fact that the two barely knew each other, but she preferred to think it was due solely to the man's amazing acting abilities. He'd obviously been in a lot of emotional pain, but had chosen to conceal his inner turmoil for the sake of his colleagues.

The idea of such selflessness struck Cameron as both sweet and unbearably tragic. Wilson was no longer the cheerful advice giver she'd imagined and instead seemed to be a truly damaged individual. Like House had often commented, Cameron felt compelled by the need to 'save' people. Wilson was no different, or was he?

The oncologist was the primary reason she'd decided to stay in the hospital despite her fatigue, but his well being wasn't her only concern. His behavior was suspicious and his reactions were odd. Cameron knew that people dealt with death in widely different ways, but she still found Wilson's actions to be slightly disturbing. Was it possible he was hiding something more?

Cameron's train of thought was derailed as she ran smack dab into a member of the nursing staff. They were both knocked down by the force of the collision and the papers the woman had been carrying were scattered all over the floor. Cameron righted herself slowly, moving to help the accosted nurse.

"I'm sorry," She tried to smile. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

The woman, a young red head who wore too much makeup, shook her head. "Nah. Don't worry 'bout it. 'Snot your fault."

"Still . . ." Cameron insisted, putting the rest of the papers back in their manilla folder. " I should've been more careful."

The red head laughed. "You're too cute, what's your name?"

"Allison Cameron." The immunologist held out her hand, which was ignored.

"Ah." The woman nodded. She pointed to herself. "Lydia Monopolis . . . You know, like the game?"

Cameron's head bobbed in understanding. She picked up the discarded folder and stood, watching as the nurse did the same. The brunette handed over the parcel, smiling politely.

"Anyways, don't worry 'bout it." Lydia began. "I imagine I'd be all screwy too if my boss was about to kick the bucket." She joked.

"Excuse me?" Cameron quested.

"You know, Mr. Homer, or Condo, whatever. He's practically dead and you, being his _dutiful subordinate_," Lydia rolled her eyes in sarcasm. "Are naturally upset."

"I think you've got the wrong person . . ." Cameron interjected, walking around the neurotic care giver. "My boss's name is House."

Lydia huffed, obviously offended. "Whatever," She shrugged. "Not as if I'm gonna pay no homage to some crazy old cane-wielding gimpy anyhow."

Cameron looked back. "Did you say cane?"

* * *

Wilson wasn't sure what he was doing anymore. His feet, ever rebellious, had headed towards House's room and his whole body had followed. He blamed the suspicious hospital food.

He'd avoided seeing House's still form because he feared it would make him too emotional. That still hadn't changed, so he was at a loss to explain his body's reaction. There was no reason why he should go to see the collapsed doctor, no reason to put himself through the grinder, but his legs refused to obey his mind.

He turned into the hallway housing his friend's room. The diagnostician, whether due to his employment at the hospital, his respectful position as one of the most talented doctors in the known world, or his moderate income, had been given a great room. It wasn't quite as impressive as the absurdly large and private wings of the ridiculously wealthy, but it was more than comfortable in its own right.

It even had a window looking in. This would normally strike a patient as far too exposed, but the window was covered with a film that made everything inside blurry. From his position in the hallway, Wilson could just make out the silhouette of House in his hospital bed, with a nurse standing over him.

This posed a problem. It was far past regular visiting hours and the doctor was unsure if they'd make an exception to the long standing rules. More however, he felt uncomfortable asking for that type of special treatment.

He continued to the door with a barely perceptible pause. It was about time he stopped making excuses, especially where his friend's comfort was concerned. House deserved to face the full ramifications of his actions, of that Wilson was sure, but at the same time he felt it was cruel to cut the man off completely.

What if House woke up and no one was there? Wouldn't it just reinforce the idea that his existence was meaningless and empty? Regardless of what he'd done, Wilson couldn't find it in himself to subject the already damaged man to something like that.

With this newfound determination, he opened the door. The dark haired nurse looked up at his entrance and he was surprised to see a familiar visage. He froze in shock. The woman smiled up at him, not seeming to mind his reaction. She gave a little wave and in return he could only manage one trembling word.

"Stacy?"

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This chapter was hard to write. I kept getting stuck and starting over because I thought the characters actions weren't true to form. I hope that this final version isn't too OOC, but if it is please tell me. With that in mind, any type of feedback is welcome!

The current votes tally up to Cameron/House: 2, Wilson/House: 5, and all other pairings: 0. I know that Cameron/House and Wilson/House are arguably some of the most popular pairings, but I have to wonder, where is everyone else? (Cuddy/House fans, Cameron/Chase fans, etc.) In any case, those who haven't voted will still have a undetermined amount of chapters left to do so. I've also decided to allow those who've already voted to vote again for a secondary pairing. So, vote away!

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